Noctiphobia
by Azpidistra
Summary: Sequel to "Onierophobia." They've survived separation, pasts, and they have finally started to create an uneasy future. But will their friendships survive death? WARNING: CANON CHARACTER DEATH --ON TEMPORARY HIATUS--
1. Love in Last Departure

Author's Note: This is the fourth and last story to my 'Phobia' series, please read the first three first. I only lay claim to Asher Jacobs, Darcy Gallagher, and to the concept of Mike Ross. -------------------------------- -------------------------------------------- ------------------------------- ------------------------------  
  
September 26, 2006, 6 AM, Paris, France  
  
Methos yawned, and flung his arm across the opposite end of the bed, expecting for his finger to fall across the small of his lover's back, but instead, he only touched the cotton of the white sheets. Perplexed, he lifted his head a few inches, squinting to read the clock in the half- light. Six AM, it read.  
  
He had kicked the sheets and blankets off sometime in the night, and he pulled them closer to him now, cold from the lack of contact. In the movement, his gaze fell on the Scot sitting in the armchair across the room, pulling on his boots. "Duncan?" he mumbled.  
  
The Scot frowned, glancing to the bed. "I had hoped you would not wake."  
  
"Too late," he groaned, forcing him to sit, running a hand over his eyes. "Where are you going at this hour? On a Sunday, no less. Only homeless men trash collectors are out this early."  
  
"I'm going out," the Scot's frown deepened. "I won't be gone long. Scout's honor."  
  
"Duncan. . ."  
  
Methos watched Duncan pull his black overcoat on, fastening his sword in the inside left pocket. He sighed. They had returned to Paris three months ago, in the first week of June. From a trip he had promised to Egypt, became a year-long world tour, traveling from the Middle East through Asia, Southeast Asia, spending the early weeks of October on a sheep farm in New Zealand, passing through Australia, Africa, before stopping in Methos' house in Bermuda for Christmas, New Years, and some rest. Both had thoroughly enjoyed the Christmas morning "gifts". From there, they had moved up into South America, traveling through Central America, Mexico, the United States, and Canada, before crossing the Atlantic Ocean, and visiting a few European cities before returning home to Paris.  
  
Even as they had decreed nothing official, Methos had all but officially moved into Duncan's barge upon returning, moving half his stuff there, and sleeping there every night. Duncan had made no effort to re-take the bar from Richie, and instead he spent his time teaching at the local university three days a week. Methos painted in the park, and much to Duncan's shock, the oldest Immortal was a good painter, having learned, he claimed, from the Renaissance experts. They had had their friends over countless times, or going out with them, especially since Amanda and Nick had moved to Paris in February.  
  
They had never mentioned much in regards to their seven month separation, as both had agreed they would keep their relationship in the here and now, enjoying each other, and enjoying each other's company. They had agreed to fight battles letting the other know, and Duncan had mentioned nothing.  
  
"Do I get an explanation, at least, then?" Methos pressed.  
  
Duncan paused in the doorway, turning again to Methos, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He sighed, and Methos was reminded again of how much more he liked Duncan's face under short hair.  
  
"I was challenged, Methos. Coming home last night, I was stopped in the alley, and I agreed to meet him at six-thirty the next morning. Today morning." The Highlander bit his lip, facing Methos, judging him at his reaction.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
"I didn't want you to worry."  
  
"I would have worried when I woke up and found you gone."  
  
"I hoped to be back before you did wake. I was going to buy breakfast to cover my tracks."  
  
"Duncan. . ."  
  
"Methos. . ." The two Immortals shared a small smile. Duncan leaned over to kiss Methos gently. "I promise. I will not be gone long."  
  
"I hold you to that, MacLeod."  
  
Duncan smiled, releasing Methos's hand to cup his cheek in his, bending to kiss him again before he was gone. Methos sighed. It was close to thirty minutes before he fell asleep again, and even then, he only slept fitfully. 


	2. Confirmation

September 26, 2006, 730 AM, Paris, France  
  
While he forgot the author, Methos knew he had read the statement somewhere. Two people close to one another, sometimes knows when the others feel extreme pain, sickness, or emotion. Sometimes, they know when the other experience death.  
  
Methos woke suddenly, and looking at the clock again, he saw it only to be seven-thirty. He had dreamt that Duncan MacLeod had been killed. Duncan should have been back by now. Most fights rarely took longer than a half hour. Any longer, they risked exposure.  
  
Nervous, he rose from bed, throwing a bathrobe of Duncan's over his boxers. He moved to the kitchen, putting the hot water to boil for the coffee, and he sighed. Seven-thirty. He had no one to call, no one who would know for certain. Since Joe's death (three years ago now), he had lost all contact with the Watchers, as he had been forced to leave himself in the aftermath of the death. He sighed, again, crossed the kitchen in three steps, and grabbed the phone. He dialed the number from memory. Asher Jacobs answered the phone.  
  
"Bonjour. Ryan-Jacobs residence."  
  
"Hey, it's Adam. Rich there?"  
  
"No, he left for the bar. About half hour ago." Methos heard her pause, before she continued, "I'm heading over there myself soon. I have morning classes first. Pass along a message?"  
  
"No," Methos shook his head, knowing she could not see the gesture.  
  
He and Duncan had received word via email last January of Richie and Asher's elopement. Having returned from Switzerland, not long after New Years, they had been married in a small, quiet ceremony with Darius officiating, and with only Nick and Amanda as both witnesses and guests. Neither he nor Duncan understood just what happened over Christmas, only knew that Samuel Clarke was in jail permanently, on counts for two murders, two attempted murders, breaking and entering, and a few various other charges. And, Methos understood (better than Duncan, perhaps) that Asher had rebuilt her life in those few, short months. In Richie, she had found her second chance at happiness, and she had leapt to take it. The two were good for each other, and had risked everything to forge a future together.  
  
"No," he repeated. "Only, have you or Rich heard from MacLeod?"  
  
"No," she responded slowly. He knew she must have been shaking her head. "Not we left from supper last night. Why?"  
  
"He left early this morning, and I would have expected him back by now." He sighed, again. Definitely not his style. "I'll try the bar. He did promise breakfast. If you hear from him, Ash?"  
  
"I will call," she promised, letting the nickname slip by.  
  
Methos mumbled a thanks, ending the call a few seconds after, repeating a second phone call, this time talking to Amanda, but she too had heard nothing. He poured himself coffee, murmuring how it was too early to have to do this, and he called the bar.  
  
"Bonjour," greeted Richie. "Le Blues Bar, how may I help you? This is Richie Ryan speaking."  
  
"Rich, it's Adam. You there alone?"  
  
"Uh-huh. Havyn will not be in for at least three more hours. What's up?"  
  
"I hoped MacLeod was there."  
  
"Haven't seen him. You two fight, or something?"  
  
"No, nothing like that. Thanks, Rich."  
  
He quickly ended the call, before asked anything more. He swallowed the remaining coffee too quickly, burning his throat, swallowing back the pain, and pouring himself a second mug. He found a bagel in the freezer, leaving it on the counter to thaw. Maybe the fight was taking longer; maybe Duncan needed to wait in line before breakfast; maybe Duncan was stuck somewhere in traffic. Had Duncan taken the car? Methos glanced outside the window, confirming the car was indeed gone.  
  
This did not appear to be good. His dream continued to nag him within his mind. He swallowed some more coffee, and popped the bagel into the toaster. The heavy knock on the door startled him. He hoped it was Duncan, claiming to have forgotten his key.  
  
"Yes?" he greeted, his hopes sagging, upon seeing the two uniformed officers at the door.  
  
"Is this the residence of a Monsieur Duncan MacLeod?"  
  
"Yes," Methos confirmed. "However, I am afraid Duncan MacLeod is not home. Could I help with you anything?"  
  
"Who might you be?"  
  
"Adam Pierson. I'm a friend of Duncan's."  
  
"I am truly sorry to be the bearer then. We found Monsieur MacLeod's body not far from here. Dead. Decapitated, I am afraid. We need someone to identify the body."  
  
Methos blinked at the officer, in shock. Duncan was dead. He knew he was dead; he did not have to see the body. He just knew. But he had to, for security sake. He nodded. "Yes, of course. Just let me change."  
  
"But, of course. I'll wait outside."  
  
Methos nodded. He swallowed the lat of his coffee, rolling the mug in his hands for several seconds, before he threw it across the room, barely flinching when it broke against the far wall. Not even glancing toward the mess, he disappeared into the bedroom, emerging several minutes later: dressed.  
  
He locked the door behind him. Forty-five minutes later, he confirmed, that yes, the decapitated body was indeed that of Duncan MacLeod. Some poor soul had found both pieces, and had done their best to keep the two together. Numb, Methos signed the necessary forms, and accepted the ride back from the officer.  
  
"I really am very sorry," he said, having pulled in front of the barge.  
  
Methos nodded, and he let himself inside. 


	3. Methos Breaks the News

Author's Note: Please note, I changed the date of the first two chapters. Also, in the first chapter, I said the 26th was a Sunday, when it is in fact a Monday, but it plays nicely into the next chapter. Also, as almost a year has passed since last chapter, and both Asher and Richie were born in September, both have celebrated another birthday.  
  
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September 26, 2006, 1030 AM, Paris, France  
  
Alone. He was alone. He had not been alone, not like this, since Alexa had died. And even then, he had had Joe Dawson and Duncan MacLeod to turn to. Now he had no one.  
  
He cursed loudly. He cursed again, and again, and again. He remembered his last words. And while he remembered the tenderness of those words, and in that parting kiss, he knew neither had said, "I love you."  
  
But the sentiments had been there. He knew they had bee, He had felt them, had felt it. Love was lessened every time it was spoken, he would take a kiss any day. In this, if in nothing else, he preferred emotion to words. Duncan MacLeod had always been the opposite, and perhaps, it was for that, that they had always complimented each other so well.  
  
He remembered when they had first met. And, he had offered Duncan McLeod his head, and he had left Paris, remembering how close how he had been, imagining how Duncan MacLeod's hair might feel on his fingers, how dark his eyes were when he was impassioned. And, then he had come back. Joe had convinced him, but he had not needed much convincing. Don Salzer's, his mentor and good friend, death gave him the excuse he needed; the excuse to see the highlander again. But Amanda had been there, and he had not seized his chance. And, then Kristin had shown, and so had he. And, he had the highlander alone, and his nose had been painted, and the long uphill struggle had commenced for him there. It had peaked he thought, when Duncan MacLeod wore his sweater, that same sweater he had worn the day Duncan MacLeod had painted his nose, almost a year or more later, when the Immortals and Watchers had been brinking on war.  
  
He had loved Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod had known it. For Methos had loved him unlike he had loved anyone, unlike Ruth, or Alexa, certainly unlike Byron (as that always been more of a mutual gratifying pleasure), unlike his other sixty-seven wives. The Highlander had been special, a class by himself.  
  
But it no longer mattered. Duncan MacLeod was dead.  
  
Methos frowned. He needed to escape the barge.  
  
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"Bring out more of the whiskey, Havyn too, will you?" Richie called over his shoulder to his chief bartender.  
  
"Sure thing, captain!" she called cheerily back. Little too cheerily, Richie thought, and she had only taken to calling him 'captain' since he and Asher had returned from Switzerland.  
  
Shaking his head, Richie Ryan returned to stocking the newly cleaned glasses onto the shelves, listening to the muted sounds of the American- influenced pop-rock station playing on the portable radio. It was still early, only barely ten. But Havyn had arrived early, claiming she was bored, and Richie had put her straight to work, claiming much pre-opening work to be done.  
  
"Did you want the rum too?" she called back again.  
  
"Might as well. But just one bottle." Richie finished shelving the glasses, and he grabbed a rag to wipe down the counter. He heard the door chimes at the very same moment he felt the presence of another Immortal enter the bar. "We're not open," he muttered.  
  
"How about for old, dear friends?"  
  
"Adam!" Richie yelped surprised. "Didn't expect you here for some hours yet."  
  
"Yeah, well," he waved his hand half-heartedly, at a loss of what to say. "I've had a difficult morning."  
  
"Thought you'd drown it in a beer?"  
  
"Something like that," Methos mumbled, but Richie had already slid a beer across the wood to him. "Thanks."  
  
Richie nodded, finished wiping the counter, and he threw the rag aside, to lean across the counter to chat better. "So'd you hear Mike and Darcy might be coming for a visit?"  
  
"No, I hadn't. Bringing Colin this time, or is he to stay with Mike's mother again?"  
  
"I think they may bring him this time. Want him to see the country he was born in, I guess." Richie shrugged, squinting to look closer to Methos' haggard expression. "Did you get any sleep last night, old man? You look like you swallowed the car's motor oil driving over here, or like the car drove you."  
  
Methos raised an eyebrow at Richie's anthologies, two which Richie shrugged again, and grinned to sheepishly. "No, nothing like that." This time, Richie raised his eyebrows, and Methos let another sigh. "I had a visit from the authorities today, not long after I had called you. . ."  
  
"And?"  
  
"I found MacLeod."  
  
"Really? That's great. Where?"  
  
"In the morgue," he whispered, the truth of it growing more real as he spoke it out loud. "Dead."  
  
"Oh, well," clearly Richie was not concerned, "you helped him to escape, right? I mean, there are few worse places to re-wake than a morg. . ."  
  
"Richie," Methos interrupted gently, "you misunderstand me. When I said MacLeod was dead, I meant dead."  
  
"Dead?"  
  
"Dead," repeated Methos, and he drained his beer. 


	4. Coming to Grips

Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay. A combination of no internet access, writer's block, and classes starting again. Hopefully, updates will be slightly more frequent now.  
  
Alexandra the Half-Wolf: thanks! Shamelessly plugging my own stories, but I have some companion stories up here too. if you have only read the main four.  
  
More shameless plugging: read "Flowers in Skulls". You know you want to.  
  
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September 26, 2006, 130 PM, Paris, France  
  
"No!" Richie yelled. It had been several moments since either had spoke. Havyn had still not re-emerged with the alcohol, and truthfully, Richie had forgot she was there. He had forgot Methos was there; had forgot where he was. That one word kept running through his mind, 'Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.' Maybe if he repeated it enough times, the word's magic would repeat the process, and Duncan would walk through the door, looking for his lover, looking to spend time with friends.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked, and only after several moments had passed. His voice was quiet, strained. His hands shook, and he gripped the edge of the counter for support. "Couldn't you be mistaken?"  
  
"No, Richie," Methos spoke slowly. "Don't you think I've wondered the same thing myself?"  
  
"But, how?"  
  
"In a fight, I assume. He left early this morning. To accept a challenge." Methos paused, and he took a long gulp of the beer. "He never came back. Authorities informed him. I identified his body."  
  
"He was found?" Richie's eyes opened wide. From the start, Duncan had taught him how to dispose of the body, of how to clean the opponent's sword to dispose of it as well; that sloppiness, any sloppiness, could result in someone or something finding out about them. "By who?"  
  
"I don't know. The officer didn't say, and that was one question I would rather not know the answer to."  
  
"He's dead," Richie repeated. It was not a question; it was a statement. It was an acceptance of the fact. "He's dead," he repeated again, and he gave life to the mind's echo he heard only moments before. "He's dead."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I can't. . . I can't. . . ."  
  
Methos raised an eyebrow. "How in bloody hell do you think I feel? Like dancing? Oh, gods," his head fell into palms. "First Alexa, then Joe, and now Duncan. Fuck," he whispered.  
  
Richie didn't know how to respond, so, he didn't. Instead, he took the rag into his hands again, and he cleaned. And, he cleaned.  
  
---------------------------------  
  
An hour, maybe two, (or a day later for Richie all knew or cared), Asher Jacobs walked into the apartment. Neither Richie nor Methos flinched at the presence of third Immortal. She was on the phone, talking in what Richie assumed must be rapid German; it was only last month that he had finally convinced her to buy a cell phone. He sighed; she smiled, misunderstanding the noise, the gesture. "Hello, sweetheart," she smiled. She stepped behind the counter to kiss him. Still slightly distracted, he responded. "Hello, Adam."  
  
"Humph," the oldest Immortal answered.  
  
"Someone die?" she asked. She meant it to be a joke, and for a brief second, Richie was reminded how long, how far she had come, but then Methos looked up, and she saw the emotion, the heartbreak in his eyes, and she knew, she knew. For she knew that look. Every time she looked in a mirror, she saw the same expression in her reflection. "Who?" she asked quietly.  
  
"Mac." It was Richie, who answered.  
  
She swore lightly under her breath. "September, Monday, the twenty-sixth," she muttered, and she swore lightly again.  
  
Methos' head jerked up. "It's Sunday."  
  
"It's a Monday." She cocked her head. "How else do you think I had classes this morning?"  
  
Methos swore again. He quickly finished the beer, added the glass to the several already before him, and he left. Didn't say good-bye, didn't give an explanation, he just left. Leaving Asher and Richie alone.  
  
Richie cleared his throat, and he took a deep breath. "Do you want to call the remaining club members? Or did you want to call the not-so-blissful Immortals? Because heaven knows, he won't."  
  
Asher shook her head. She looked to Richie, and he remembered, he remembered everything; he remembered what it felt like, to be going through this, from when Joe died, and from when Tessa died, from when he thought he had almost lost Asher. And, he knew. He cursed, and he took Asher in her arms, and they held to one another, afraid to let go.  
  
Neither noticed Havyn re-emerge with the alcohol bottles. She simply took in the seat, and let the two be. 


	5. Coming to Grips II

September 26, 2006, 520 PM, Paris, France  
  
All he knew, he did not want to sleep at the barge tonight. He wouldn't sell anything, at least not yet, but he couldn't spend an empty night there, a night alone. He didn't even want to see it right now. He didn't car that most of his belongings were there, that in the few months since he and Duncan had returned to Paris, that his things had migrated from his flat to Duncan's barge, or that he had no food in his flat. How would he? Other than the occasional return trip to grab some clothes or a toothbrush or a book, or to feed the cats, he hadn't lived there in almost two and half months. He hoped his cat would still remember him, still like him. But Methos sighed; it was a cat. Right now, he had more to worry about that a cat.  
  
Silently, he unlocked the door. Sumerian lay curled on his couch, obviously asleep, and briefly, he tiptoed to check, he was indeed only sleeping, and not dead, but he was. Asleep. Methos sighed in relief, and from habit, he wandered to his fridge. Beer, he had beer. He pulled the last bottle from his fridge, pausing to wonder how long it had been there, before he figured it couldn't hurt him, and he popped the bottle open. Somehow, the standard 'pop' sound reassured him. He took a long gulp. Beer bottle in hand, he wandered over to the couch. The cat opened one eye sleepily at him, before he returned to dreamland. "Wish I could sleep," Methos mumbled under his breath. Instead, he swallowed more beer.  
  
Half hour later, the beer gone, Methos simultaneously heard the door knock, and felt the double Immortal presence. He cursed under his breath. "I don't need this right now," he murmured. He assured himself he did indeed have his sword on him, and he stalked to the door. "Yes?" he spat.  
  
"We wanted to make sure you made it home safely," spoke Richie. He and Asher stood at the doorway, bearing some food, and also his belongings. "We tried Mac's first, but seeing you weren't there, we figured you would be here. We just thought it be best you weren't alone."  
  
"I'm not alone," he responded bitterly. "I have Sumerian. And, I assume Osiris must be around here somewhere." But nonetheless, he opened the door, so the two younger Immortals could come inside. "Leave the clothes in the bedroom. I'll go through it later."  
  
Richie nodded, and he disappeared, leaving Asher with the brooding Methos. "I didn't know you had cats, Adam," she asked.  
  
"Duncan and I adopted them." Methos shrugged. He returned to the couch, to his previous perch, and Asher sat next to him, carefully sliding Sumerian over first. Sumerian hissed, and he jumped from the couch, only to disappear into the kitchen. Asher frowned. "We were in -uh- Bermuda. Theresa always has cats, and one recently had kittens, so Duncan I took two. Our mascots, for the remaining destinations." Methos frowned, and he shrugged again. "Don't know why we kept them here, and not there. Suppose MacLeod wanted to keep his place cat-proof."  
  
Asher cocked her head, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she simply nodded. Richie re-emerged from the bedroom, with the bag of food still in his left hand. "You have a cat asleep on your pillow," he stated. He sat in the opposite armchair, and he placed the bag on the coffee table. "Since when do you have cats?"  
  
"Since now," the oldest Immortal answered. "Why is everyone asking me about cats all of a sudden?" He stood, stalking into the kitchen, to discard the beer bottle. Once there, away from the four other prying eyes, he stared outside the window, and he remembered the first night he and Duncan had slept here, together, and he had awoke to Duncan standing here, dressed only in boxer shorts and his hair, cooking breakfast, standing at this window, drinking his coffee, while the oven heated. Methos sighed. From the living room, he could hear the whispers. Idly, he wondered if Richie had left Havyn in charge, or if he had closed the bar, and if they had already called the others with the news.  
  
He frowned, and he set the empty beer bottle on the kitchen counter. And, he returned to the living room. He sat on the couch, again, and he asked, "So, what kind of food did you bring?" 


	6. Breakdown

Author's Note: Wow. Been awhile. Never suspected a "Kill Duncan" fic would be so bloody difficult. Hope someone is still out there. Promise to make some effort to have next chapter up much sooner.  
  
September 26, 2005, 1030 PM, Paris, France  
  
Although they wanted to spend the night, feeling Methos should not be alone, the world's oldest Immortal insisted they return to their own place. "You're young yet," he informed them, "don't waste your time watching an old man like me. I've seen death before. Hell, I was death." He raked a hand through his short hair. "For awhile, anyway."  
  
"You're a different man now, Adam," Richie pointed out. He wondered if Methos meant to slip about his past. For though Asher had been a friend to both him and Duncan, and was his wife, she still didn't know Adam Pierson and Methos were the one and same person. "You're changed."  
  
"Changed or not, Rich..." He shook his head. "Go, please."  
  
Richie nodded. He motioned to Asher, who stood silent. He noticed she watched Methos carefully, but when he moved to turn to the door, she stepped closer to Methos. She leaned forward, and she wrapped his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Methos seemed surprised, but he lifted his arms slightly to hug her in return. Asher stood tip-toe to kiss Methos' cheeks, and when she pulled away, she leaned close to his ear to whisper, "Call should you need anything."  
  
Methos nodded. He watched them go. Neither Richie nor Asher looked back. Hearing the door close behind them, he sighed, and he gathered the empty beer bottles and the empty styrofoam food containers, bringing them into the kitchen to throw away. He found himself at the window again. "Well, Methos," he told himself, "it's just you, me and the cats." He frowned at his reflection. He should feed those blasted animals, he thought. He would do it in the morning. Instead, he made his way to the bed, and he collapsed face downward, atop the covers, fully-clothed. Five minutes later, he was snoring.  
  
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"I'm worried about him," Asher sighed. She sat on their bed, her knees brought up to her chest, her arms around them in a hug, and Richie realized with a start how very vulnerable she looked. She shook her head. "How you coping?" she asked.  
  
"I think I've been better," Richie answered slowly. He climbed into bed, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled closer to him, resting her head against his bare chest. His hair was still wet from his shower. "I mean, Mac was my mentor, my teacher, my friend, and practically my father," he added, "and I miss him like hell. I just wish," he paused to struggle with his thoughts, "I wish I knew the bastard who did this, so I could extract some sort of revenge, some sort of honor towards Mac. I keep thinking he's just gone on another trip, but he won't be returning from this one."  
  
Asher realized Richie cried silently. She reached her hand upwards to brush away his tears. "You're holding remarkable dignity in this."  
  
"I have to. Like you said, we have to be strong."  
  
"No, Richie." She shifted her position so that she was sitting. "No, I never..." But she cut her thought short, suddenly surprised to see Richie's body shaking violently with his sobs. Any more violent, he would hyperventilate. Asher wrapped her arms around him, and he buried his head in her shoulder. He needed this; he couldn't do this in front of Methos. Maybe that was he meant by being strong. She muttered something, and in his hysterics, Richie couldn't make out the language. But he supposed it didn't really matter. 


	7. The Morning After

September 27, 2005, 730 AM, Paris, France  
  
Seven-thirty the next morning, Asher made a conscious decision to skip her day's classes. With that settled, she fell into sleep again.  
  
Eight-thirty the next morning, she felt someone lightly poking her arm, and she awoke to find Richie leaning over her. Something in his eyes broke her heart, and she reached her arms upwards to coil around his neck. He drew her close, falling asleep to the rhythm of the other's heart.  
  
Ten-forty five both awoke for the day. But neither left their bed. They simply hung on, everything hitting the full-shock. Even Immortals weren't safe. Even Immortals as good as Mac weren't safe.  
  
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It was already after noon when they finally did rise, and only then because Havyn called the apartment, asking when she needed to be in for work. "Uh, I've made an executive decision to close the bar today, Hav. Get some rest."  
  
Asher boiled the water for coffee. With yesterday's events, they hadn't gone food shopping like they had planned, and instant was currently all they had. Richie didn't even think to complain. They drank the black liquid in silence.  
  
Two in the afternoon, the phone rang again. But neither bothered to answer it. The machine did. It wasn't Methos. It was Darcy, and Mike.  
  
"Hey, guys. Coming into Paris in three days times. Can we bring anything? Don't worry, we'll get a hotel room this time. We, uh, heard the news, on the news. BBC. We're sorry. Let us know if you need anything."  
  
Neither Richie nor Asher looked up, nor did they comment.  
  
Half hour later, the phone rang again, and again they followed same procedure.  
  
"Hello, Richard, Asher. We just received a call from Adam. Poor dear. How are you two holding up? Do give us a call. Kisses."  
  
"Guess he told Amanda and Nick," Richie said numbly. "Now, we won't have to."  
  
"We'll have to call them back later."  
  
"Later, indeed," Richie agreed.  
  
They lapsed again into silence. 


End file.
